


Heartful, Waiting

by jamlockk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, M/M, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Loathing, Sick Fic, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vampires, Vampirism as a disease, Vamplock, discontinued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When you really want love you will find it waiting for you.” ― Oscar Wilde, De Profundis</p><p>Vampirism is a virus which only affects those with a certain gene. Faced with a sorrowful case that suddenly brings the virus into their lives, Sherlock and John must learn what it means to live with hearts full and waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part sick fic, part vamplock, part dealing with self-image issues, part who knows what the hell I was thinking when I was writing this. I've been wrestling with this one for a while, it's gently beta'd by the wonderful  
> superblue so any and all crappiness is mine. 
> 
> Usual disclaimer about just playing with these two for funsies, although I think this came out much more angsty than I originally intended. Hopefully it'll be worth it.
> 
> *UPDATE 25 July 2015*
> 
> You may have noticed I haven't updated this fic in a while. First, let me apologise for that. Second, I will finish this story. I desperately want to but I want to do the idea justice and right now, I have to admit that I'm struggling with it. There are some personal demons I'm trying to manage in writing this and I need some time away from it to make sure that when I do finish it, it's what I want it to be. So for now, im gutted but I have to put this on hiatus. I will finish it. It just might take me longer than I'd like.

 

_Extract from Baynes, I and Bradstreet, I, BJGP, February 2004, Vampirism: Diagnosis, treatment and continuing care – guidelines for GPs, accessed online 24 December 2015 by Watson, J H_

_Lamiastis, or vampirism as it is most commonly known, is a highly adaptable, blood borne, fast-acting virus, transmitted through bites, open wounds and sharing needles. Affecting only male patients, it alters the cellular makeup of its host in those with the V1PR3 gene. It was the mapping of this gene in 2003 that enabled medical scientists to fully understand the nature of the vampire virus. There is no known cure but if patients regularly ingest or inject healthy blood from a compatible source the effects are minimised._

_Initial stages present like flu: high fever, headaches, aching joints and muscles, vomiting, intense fatigue, photophobia and hyperesthesia. These gradually fade within a few hours provided the patient consumes a small quantity of suitable donor blood. The virus stimulates production of blood breakdown by erythrocytes, requiring regular feeding to replenish the body’s supply. Without blood the virus multiplies exponentially and patients usually die of extensive organ failure. Untreated, death occurs within six months of infection._

_In the UK blood sources are usually family or close friends, who, if not a medical professional, must undergo a day-long qualification, so that they can supervise feeding. The patient’s GP should assess and assign an appropriate donor if required._

_At the time of primary infection and subsequently in between feedings, when donor blood is successfully consumed, the patient will be mentally fragile. Emotional responses will be heightened and unpredictable as the virus adapts the cell biology of its host (see citation, Wiggins, W, BMJ, May 2009, Lamiastis – An Examination of Cellular Degeneration in Vampire Patients)._

_Feeding is normally done via donated blood bag - direct ingestion from a donor is more effective but involves significant emotional investment due to the biochemical bond formed between donor and vampire. Bites require trust between donor and vampire sufferer, and patients must be instructed on how to safely administer the bite. Vampire sufferers secrete a mild anaesthetic venom in their saliva, which relaxes the donor and causes hormone production to increase in vampire and donor, often causing a state similar to sexual arousal in both participants. This is why mutual consent must be sought - the donor is immediately very vulnerable, as is the vampire._

_Regular feeding patterns should be established as soon as possible to ensure mental stability in newly infected vampires. In the initial stages, feeding is required every 2-3 days; once the virus is stabilised blood should be consumed every 4-6 weeks. Without blood the vampire will become increasingly erratic and exhausted but unable to sleep, aggressive and eventually physically violent, requiring sedation and restraint. Untreated cases are dealt with swiftly and there are severe penalties for either withholding blood or allowing an infected patient to decline blood over a certain period of time._

_The virus causes none of the mystic powers traditionally associated with vampires, although patients body temperature runs slightly higher than average and ultraviolet light no longer stimulates melanin production in the dermis, perhaps explaining some of the myths around vampirism. One physical change which does occur in line with popular lore is that of the lengthened canines – although this change does normally manifest up to two weeks after the initial infection. In most cases the canines are only marginally elongated and widened, and due to calcium build up in the enamel and dentin the teeth become significantly stronger._

_Despite the wary public perception, vampires are no more dangerous than any other human. It is illegal to discriminate on the basis of a vampire diagnosis, and hateful action against sufferers falls under the Crime and Disorder Act 1998 in the same way as do religious or racially motivated crimes. However, instances of lamiaphobia are still commonplace, with many vampires choosing to keep their diagnosis a secret._

******

John trudges back to Baker Street, the cold December wind nipping at his bare hands and stinging his nose and cheeks an angry red. The surgery will be closed over Christmas, but he offered to be on call should a locum be needed; anything to keep himself busy. It’s been a year now, since Mary, Magnussen, the shooting, the divorce. He’s still angry. It still hurts, that he almost lost Sherlock twice more, before Mycroft finally revealed his grand plan and the last assassin in Moriarty’s web was captured. The thought chills him more than the harsh winter air; he’d been married to the sniper from the pool, had lain in bed next to her, pulled her close, told her he loved her. Rage and disgust war for dominance in his roiling gut, and he hastily pushes away all thoughts of his ex-wife. John thought he was finally coming to terms with everything he’d gone through, but it seems there’s still a heavy resentment lurking there, threatening to choke him if he lets it.

It should have become easier, and it has to some degree, but things are still somewhat unsettled even after all this time. He and Sherlock have found most of their former rhythm again, falling back into habits established Before. That’s how John thinks of it now, Before, and After. In his mind, Before represents a time when he was truly happy, but he knows in his heart there was something missing back then. John had been content, of course, but he still wishes he’d had the courage to tell Sherlock just how much he meant to him, tell that infuriating, arrogant, funny, brilliant genius that…. That what? That John loved him? Loves him still? Loves him desperately, wholly, without reservation, sometimes wondering how he can contain its seemingly infinite depths in his small, broken body? Yeah, that would go down like a lead balloon with a man who abhors sentiment, prizing only his mental faculties.

Sometimes though, John wonders. Sherlock has changed since he came back, his sharp edges and angles seem softer, he smiles more frequently, the genuine smile that John knows only he can see, not the jarring imitation he gives for victims or clients. Sherlock planned John’s wedding, for fuck’s sake, down to the last tiny detail. You don’t invest that much in someone who’s just a friend. But then, John is Sherlock’s best friend, and he’s probably never – no, definitely never – had a relationship this close before. Maybe this is what he thinks best friends do? Maybe this is as much sentiment as John can get?

Sighing, John finds he’s standing in front of 221B, not having noticed he’d made it home. He reaches up to open the black door and slips inside, glad to be out of the freezing wind. The flat upstairs is dimly lit, Sherlock must have started a fire as he often does now in anticipation of John coming home. John can hear a soft melody beginning, the sound of the violin floating down to him, soothing, calming the knots and tangles in his head a little. The music is lilting, gentle but somehow melancholy, as if the instrument knows of the hole in John’s heart and is expressing its empathy.

John knows there’s only one who can fill that hole, and he’s probably standing by the window, long frame silhouetted by the early evening glow of the street where John stands, elegant fingers producing the rich sounds that whisper into John’s ears and warm him to his core.

Shaking himself and imprisoning his feelings in their proper cell in his head once more, he starts up the seventeen steps to everything that he wants in life but knows he can never have.

******

Sherlock hears the front door open and close, and smiles to himself as he picks up the bow and begins to play. Brahms, one of John’s favourites. Not that John knows what it is, not that Sherlock cares. He just plays, losing himself in the sweet tones of the strings and thoughts of the man for whom he’s playing.

It’s nearly Christmas. John loves Christmas, despite his unpleasant family history and more recent, still painful, history. It’s been a year and although the physical wounds have healed, there’s still a numbness, a dull feeling in Sherlock’s chest.

The scar left by Mary’s bullet is one of many his body bears because of John. The slashes on his back, the ligatures on his wrists, the burns and cuts on his thighs - Sherlock would let his body be used, wasted, torn to shreds and repaired to be torn again a hundred times if it meant John was safe. If it meant that John was here beside him. John would never know, would never see the extent of the damage wrought while Sherlock was away.

Sherlock had made sure of it. Recovering from Mary’s shot under John’s care while never allowing him to see anything beyond the small, round hole in his chest had been a challenge, certainly. John had been hurt but had hid it well, as though by not allowing him too close Sherlock was somehow punishing him further for the sins of his wretched wife. Sherlock was glad that for once, John’s astuteness in regard to Sherlock’s deeply buried emotions was absent; it was no way about keeping John at arm’s length because of Mary. It was in every way about self-preservation, for once Sherlock being aware of his limits and refusing to push them. He couldn’t allow John to see him, couldn’t let John know. To be that vulnerable, to be laid bare, in the cold light and have John see the useless, unrequited love in Sherlock’s heart, to have that rejected, however kindly, would break him.

He had stupidly allowed a mere fraction of it to creep into his face at the wedding as he deduced Mary’s (ultimately fake) pregnancy. An unforgivable lapse. The result had been pretty disastrous, even then, weeks prior to the shot to the chest. John had obviously seen the brief glimmer there, but chose to immediately ignore it, quickly moving away with his new wife in his arms, nervously rambling about Mrs Hudson and unseemly rumours.

Sherlock left shortly after, knowing that no-one would really notice. John’s reaction had been an ice cold bucket of water straight in his face, but almost a welcome one. Now he at least knew that there was no point dreaming, no point indulging any silly fantasies. He would always endeavour to be a good friend to John, but nothing more.

He knew there was no hope that he could have any more of John than he already had, right now, the two of them living together again. But no matter how hard he tried, his treacherous heart still yearned.. He dulled it as much as he could with cases, experiments, his violin. As much as it ached to have John nearby, it stung him to think back to when there had been such huge distance between them Before. No, he would take proximity over inaccessibility any day.

Sherlock finishes the piece, the final note fading into the quiet of the flat. He opens his eyes and turns away from the window, lowering his instrument and bow to dangle at his sides. John is sitting in his chair, watching. His face is open, his eyes strangely glazed. Sherlock frowns, John’s expression is almost as wistful, as mournful as the music. Sherlock thinks he sees a flash of longing cross John’s features, but it’s gone almost immediately and he thinks he must be mistaken. Not his area, after all.

“That was, um, lovely, yeah?” John says softly. He’s looking away from Sherlock now, rising out of his chair and making for the kitchen. Tea, presumably, Dr Watson’s panacea for all situations. Sherlock merely nods. The kettle rattles and bubbles, John clatters about a bit, Sherlock carefully sets his violin back in its velvet-lined case, accepts the hot mug from John and sits down in his chair. John takes a small sip of his own tea and returns to his chair opposite.

A blanket of silence settles over the room, broken only by the flickering noises of the fire low in the grate. Sherlock doesn’t finish his tea, and instead wanders into his mind palace looking for… God knows what. Something, anything to keep his mind occupied on a subject other than John’s mouth, his lips on the edge of his mug, his tongue darting out to wet those lips and lick the taste of tea from the corners.

He almost registers it somewhere in his mind when John sighs, gathers Sherlock’s half-full mug and goes back into the kitchen. He partly hears John rinsing the mugs, then crossing back into the sitting room.

John picks up his book, some series with dragons or other such nonsense; there’s a sword on the front. Sherlock deduced some of the plot but the story is apparently more complicated than he’d given the author credit for, and John had grinned widely, pleased that the ending would remain unspoiled for once. Sherlock had sniffed and waved a hand dismissively before going back to his flask of phosphoric acid, but hadn’t been able to stop the slight tweak of his mouth at John’s amusement.

The silence settles once more, and Sherlock starts a conversation with himself in his head about the preservative properties of canine saliva on different weights of paper. That case had turned out to be less diverting than he’d thought; of course the contracts hadn’t been stolen, the dog had chewed them and the solicitor’s nine year-old son hadn’t wanted the family pet to get in trouble, so he’d hidden the soggy papers in the back of a dusty old bookcase. Obvious. It had opened an interesting avenue into how the spit of different breeds of dog might affect different kinds of paper, but John had been resolutely against Sherlock’s acquiring a variety of hounds and letting them loose on John’s notebooks. Still, it wasn’t as though Sherlock couldn’t just buy lots of notebooks and take them to Battersea Dogs Home, they might not all be purebreds but the data would still be useable…

He is pulled sharply from his thoughts by the weight of a warm hand on his shoulder. John’s voice breaks through the maelstrom of his thoughts, but all too quickly the hand and voice are gone. Sherlock nods again, drifting back into his own head. He feels inexplicably cold all of a sudden, and belatedly realises John has gone upstairs to bed.

John’s jumper is lying on the back of his chair. The texture of the wool, the warm weight of the jumper, the soothing, earthy scent he associates with tea and jam and the acrid smell of a gunshot, and giggling at crime scenes, and thrilling chases down dark alleys, and friend, and care, and home, and love. These sensations are all documented in his mind palace in exquisite detail.

John’s jumper is ugly and oatmeal-coloured, how can he stand to have this thick, scratchy wool on his skin, Sherlock wonders? More to the point, when did Sherlock get up, cross the room and bury his face in the hideous item?  
Scowling at himself, Sherlock flops down onto his side on the sofa, the jumper still twisted in his hands. He balls it up and shoves it under his head, inhaling deeply. The wool feels rough against his cheek, the scent of John fills his nose and his eyes flutter closed. Sleep pulls him under slowly, and he dreams of tea and John’s strong hands.

******

Bleary eyed, John wanders into a suspiciously quiet sitting room with his morning tea. Sherlock is draped across the sofa, still dressed in yesterday’s pyjamas and blue silk dressing gown. His face is mashed into the back cushions, one arm flung over his head, the other clutching something tightly to his chest. He’s snoring softly.

John smiles at him fondly - even between cases sometimes the transport overrules the relentless brain, no matter how much their owner tries to fight it. He so rarely seems to sleep properly, not that he ever had much of a schedule in the first place, John muses.

John was a soldier, trained to sleep lightly and wake fully alert, and it’s this that makes him keep his bedroom door open just enough when he goes upstairs at night. Sometimes he hears thrashing and whimpers coming from the downstairs bedroom, and more than once he’s sure he’s heard screaming. Those times are the most terrifying. He’s never woken Sherlock from what’s clearly horrific nightmares; he knows Sherlock wouldn’t want him to see him vulnerable like that. It’s just enough to be there though, when he hears Sherlock struggling against whatever demons and monsters his furious mind can conjure. All John can do is stand in the doorway, unsure if he’s crossing some unspoken boundary just doing that, and talk softly to Sherlock, tell him it’s ok, he’s safe, he can go back to sleep. John’s pretty certain Sherlock never fully wakes on nights like that, and if he’s aware of John coming downstairs to coax him out of his nightmares and back into peaceful slumber he’s never acknowledged it. That’s fine, John won’t mention it either.

He does however still nag him about sleeping in between cases. John can tell when Sherlock is pushing himself, clinging onto the post-case high in an effort to stave off going to bed. The crashes are worse than Before and once Sherlock goes down, he stays down for longer. John wonders if it’s partly from whatever he was up to during his time Away, as they’ve both taken to calling it.

John knows some of what Moriarty had planned when Sherlock was away dismantling his network. He’s forgiven him for the two years dead thing; he tried to stay furious, and yeah, there’s still some residual anger there, but it’s nowhere near as powerful as the blinding rage he keeps bottled up for his ex-wife. He actually owes her, in some twisted way – it was her cruel bullet that forced John to see what had always been there.

Those few weeks taking care of Sherlock had compelled him to finally admit to himself that he loves his best friend. As in, loves his best friend more deeply than he ever thought himself capable of, completely and unflinchingly. And then, of course, he almost lost him, again, to some fucking bullshit MI6 mission in Serbia. Mycroft had almost twitched at the force of John’s fury when he told him about that, and John had only just resisted the urge to get right in the pompous arse’s face as Mycroft coldly told him the plan was to flush out Mary, and had been successful. Sherlock had merely stood there, unusually quiet, as John raged about being left out of the loop yet again. Finally John felt he’d made his point, and demanded they both be allowed to return to Baker Street. Sherlock had been unable to hide his surprise, and Mycroft acquiesced condescendingly, as only Mycroft could.

It had been a bit of an awkward taxi ride, but once they’d gotten back into the flat Sherlock had seemed genuinely, if cautiously, pleased to have John there. For his part, John was equally happy to be back in the one place that truly felt like home, with the one person he truly loved most. They stood in this very sitting room, both clearly feeling a little bit uneasy still. But as they caught each other’s eyes the spark between them that had always been there crackled like electricity in a stormy sky, and both of them defenceless just for a brief moment. He wishes he’d told Sherlock, then and there, how he felt. He didn’t though, just as he tried to summon the courage open his mouth Sherlock glanced away, and the moment passed.

Shaking his head to clear the self-pity, John plonks himself down in his chair and slurps a mouthful of tea. The lump of legs and blue silk on the sofa stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. John chuckles under his breath and reaches for the paper, content to let the daft bastard sleep on. They’ve nothing on today, and it’s almost Christmas. He wonders what gift he should get Sherlock, as there’s only a few shopping days left. Sherlock doesn’t really do gifts but who knows? Maybe if John gets him something good Sherlock will reciprocate? His mind helpfully supplies an image of Sherlock naked but for a lovely red ribbon, tied round his…. John wills the image away before things get out of hand.

John wants to get him something that feels personal, something he knows Sherlock will really enjoy, something that shows Sherlock how much he is loved. That would save John having to bite the bullet and confess his feelings out loud. God, he should really stop being such a bloody coward, John admonishes himself. It’s very easy to think but damn near impossible to do, apparently.

Johns stands up, picks up his now empty mug and starts towards the kitchen. The shape on the sofa finally shows signs of life, as Sherlock rolls over and promptly pitches himself off the couch. He thuds to the floor in a rather undignified heap and suddenly John can’t hold back his laughter.

“Are…. Um… Are you ok?” John wheezes between giggles.

Sherlock huffs, stands and flounces past John into the bathroom. The water begins running in the shower, so Sherlock is most definitely fully awake now, judging by the amount of banging about going on behind the door. John shakes his head indulgently; Sherlock will either be ages getting ready, or fully, immaculately dressed in what seems like mere seconds – the gorgeous git.

Turns out it’s the latter this morning, as John is folding away the paper and finishing his second cup of tea. Sherlock comes barrelling out of the bathroom ten minutes later. He’s clutching his phone and his eyes have that brilliant light in them that John loves. Sherlock is barely containing his seemingly limitless energy as he approaches, completely at odds with the man peacefully slumbering on the sofa not so long ago.

“Hurry up, John!” Sherlock hastens, pushing him towards the stairs.

“Wait a minute Sherlock, for God’s sake! What the hell’s going on?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and continues harrying John to get ready.

“Lestrade just texted, we have a case. Body in an abandoned building, throat torn out, bite marks on its chest. At first blush an animal attack, but look.”

He turns the phone towards John to show him the crime scene photo Lestrade sent. John glances up at Sherlock’s exuberant expression, gives him the “bit not good” look but turns to the photo anyway. The bite marks in the flesh are clearly human, and Sherlock becomes even more animated when he sees John draw the same conclusion as well.

“Someone whispered something about cannibals and now Lestrade’s dealing with a hysterical witness. He needs this one solved urgently, and he’s asked us to come quickly - which is the exact opposite of what you’re doing now!” Sherlock exclaims.

“Alright, alright, just... Don’t go haring off without me. I’ll be down in two minutes.”

“Fine, fine!” Sherlock mutters, already focused on Googling something on his phone.

John glances back at the sofa as he turns to dash upstairs, and notices an oatmeal coloured bundle stuffed between the cushions where Sherlock’s face had been. As he’s pulling on his boots it suddenly occurs to him that it looks awfully like one of his jumpers. Shrugging the thought away, he races down the stairs to join his madman best friend.

******

Sherlock is restless the whole way to the crime scene, drumming his fingers on his knee and bouncing his leg. John eventually barks at him to “bloody keep still, got spiders in your socks or something?!”, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice and Sherlock allows himself a small, genuine smile. It’s a relatively short journey but the anticipation of a good case is making him fidgety.

He’s itching to see the body and to confirm his suspicions. Lestrade’s not going to be happy, he knows he’s right but it will make this case even more controversial than cannibals. The attack was obviously carried out by someone suffering from vampirism.

Sherlock’s knowledge of vampirism is limited, and he doesn’t want to ask John’s medical opinion just yet, preferring to make a dramatic pronouncement when (or if) he’s actually right. What he does know, is that vampirism is a virus, and it is not as terrifying as people think (although people are on the whole, idiotic), and it does not mean sufferers turn into bats, feast on virgins or can read minds. That last would be both a wonderful perk and an appalling burden, Sherlock thinks dryly.

According to the app on his phone lamiastis only affects people with a particular gene. Anyone who doesn’t have the gene just carries the virus, and it remains dormant. Much like the strain of the herpes virus which causes shingles and chicken pox, lying dormant in the nerve cells. This is all very interesting and Sherlock makes a mental note to track down the research papers of some prominent virologists later.

The article quotes from generic medical literature issued to doctors:

“There is no known cure but if patients ingest or inject healthy blood from a compatible source the effects are minimised. Despite the wary public perception, vampires are no more dangerous than any other human… instances of lamiaphobia are still commonplace, with many vampires choosing to keep their diagnosis a secret.”

Genetic testing is highly expensive and the spread of the disease is actually fairly limited to a few hundred cases each year. It is non-fatal except in cases where the patient refuses treatment; delay or refusal to feed leads to rapidly deteriorating symptoms, brain cell degeneration and ultimately, death.

Sherlock is convinced this murder was perpetrated by a person suffering from the initial stages of infection with the virus; someone who had not sought the proper treatment and was succumbing to its more deadly effects. John and Lestrade will want to tread lightly; if a whisper of cannibals can cause as much of a disturbance as Lestrade’s text indicated, then any hint of a vampire will cause an enormous panic. In Sherlock’s opinion, the supposedly highly trained Metropolitan police officers should be less susceptible to the prejudices and gossip of the dim-witted general public.

They arrive at a sprawling, dilapidated property in a part of the city seemingly yet untouched by urban regeneration. If not for the police vehicles and officers milling about, the entrance would be entirely obscured by massive weeds and overgrown wild flowers. The shabby-looking chain link fence has clearly done very little to keep out squatters, and the boarded up windows rattle in the cold winter wind.

Donovan is huddled in the entrance, speaking in a low voice to a young girl whose face is bright red from crying. From just behind the blue and white tape strung across the doorway, Lestrade is waiting for them with a woman, apparently the girl’s mother. Her face is also bright red, and she is expressing strong displeasure in Lestrade’s direction. The DI is doing his best to calm the woman down but his frustration is obvious.

The woman suddenly stops her tirade at their approach and John steps forward, his body language open but with clear authority.

“Mrs Wilson, this is John Watson and Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade says. “They are here to help the investigation, if they could just speak to your daughter…”

Sherlock cuts Lestrade off with a wave of his hand, and as he enters the building he hears John offer some doctoral-sounding platitudes about shock, and a good night’s rest.

Lestrade motions to Donovan and one of the waiting officers and the now-silent girl and her mother are gently escorted to their car, parked nearby.

Sherlock takes in the entrance and hallway, before making his way to the body. John’s footsteps follow behind him, a steady and comfortable presence at his back.

Lestrade follows them into what had apparently served as a reception room, his face is grim and he hasn’t finished the takeaway coffee in his hand, long since gone cold.

“It’s a vicious one, this,” he says gloomily, “Watch your step. Victim’s name is Michelle Longford. She’s only nineteen.”

Sherlock walks into the large room on the left and the smell hits him like a wave of noxious gas. The air is stale with the heavy scent of copper. The dead young woman lies face up in the middle of the floor, skirt bunched around her waist, no clothing on her upper body, and she is covered in blood. There are bite marks and scrapes all over her arms, neck and abdomen, and there are footprints in the blood leading away from the body, towards the door.

Sherlock is sweeping his gaze across the scene when John steps in, and his sharp intake of breath interrupts Sherlock’s train of thought.

“Jesus,” John sighs, “You weren’t kidding.”

He stands in the doorway and rubs a hand through his hair. Sherlock walks over to the body and bends down to examine the bite marks. Definitely human, there are approximately 36 wounds, not including the cut to her throat. It was made by a knife, a single edged blade, approximately four inches long. A switchblade, probably. The killer didn’t take it with him… Sherlock stands, goes over to the window and looks out. The he squats down again, and pulls up a necklace that had been ripped off, covered from sight by the dead girl’s hair. He extracts a plastic bag from his pocket and drops in the necklace, before standing again.

“What do you think, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks as he walks past John into the room. “Am I looking at cannibals here, or just a garden variety batshit murderer?”

“Not cannibals,” John muses from the doorway. “The bite marks are horrific, yes, but there’s no organ removal or anything. Whoever did this wasn’t trying to extract flesh, just clamped their teeth down on her again and again with enough force to cause serious haemorrhaging.”

“Very good, John,” Sherlock says, pleased by John’s accurate assessment,  
“What else do you see?”

John tries not to look cheered by Sherlock’s minor praise, and steps past Lestrade to kneel close to the body.

“Cause of death’s pretty obvious. She’s been dead, what, 12 to 15 hours maybe? The blood’s pretty solid and the temperature’s been close to freezing this past week. How did the Wilsons find her?”

“Wrong turn and bad sat nav,” Lestrade answers, “Mrs Wilson and her daughter stumbled onto the whole ugly mess after they got lost trying to find their hotel. Helluva way to start a long weekend away.”

John hums in agreement, Sherlock ignores them both until Lestrade speaks again, more quietly this time.

“Don’t know if it’s related, but we also got a weird phone call. Anonymous tip, almost. Came in right before the call from Mrs Wilson. Male voice, we think, he just said he was passing on a message that a young woman had been slain,” he says.

Sherlock’s head snaps up.

“Slain?” he asks sharply, “They said “slain”. They said that exactly?”

Lestrade looks perplexed, nodding.

“Odd choice of words, granted, but…. Hey! Sherlock!”

John barely has time to finish the sentence before Sherlock dashes out of the room in a swirl of coat.

******

Sighing, John stands up and walks away from the poor dead girl lying on the floor. He asks the officer standing on the landing where Sherlock went, but he shrugs and points upstairs. John makes to follow Sherlock, but he suddenly comes running down to where John and Lestrade are standing. He pokes his head back into the room again, then, apparently satisfied, turns and sweeps down the short hallway to leave.

John and Lestrade remove the plastic booties covering their shoes and make their way out to the main entrance again. Sherlock is foraging about in the weeds beside the main door.

“So…” Lestrade says.

John looks at him expectantly. Lestrade sighs and nods in the direction of the weeds, where Sherlock’s arse is currently in the air, covered by his theatrical coat.

“Is he alright? Are you… Are you alright?” Lestrade asks. “I mean, it’s coming on a year now, since…. Um… and I know it’s none of my business, I just…” he trails off.

John knows what he’s getting at, and doesn’t want the sympathy. He turns to Lestrade, ready to snap at him, but stops when he sees the kindness in the DI’s expression.

“Yeah, he’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just... Shit, I don’t know.” John exhales loudly. Lestrade nods in understanding, dropping the subject.

Sherlock suddenly jumps out from the weeds, a triumphant look on his face. He walks over to where they’re standing, and launches into a stream of deductions. Lestrade quickly pulls out his notebook and starts jotting down Sherlock’s observations.

“The victim came here looking for her brother, who ran away from the family home, likely about three weeks ago. She was surprised by an assailant she knew as she searched the upper floors. The first bites made her briefly nauseated and disoriented, she slipped to the ground and the killer continued his frenzied attack. At some point the killer realised what he was doing, saw she was slowly bleeding out and used his switchblade to end her life more humanely. You’re looking for her younger brother, he’s been living on the streets since their parents kicked him out for contracting lamiastis.”

John isn’t really listening to the details, as he’s looking at his friend in open admiration, still amazed, after all this time, at how much Sherlock can see and store in that wonderful mind of his.

“Brilliant,” he murmurs. Sherlock hears him, tries not to react and fails miserably, a small smile creeping onto his face for just a moment.

“Lamby--- whatsit?” Lestrade asks.

“Vampirism,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly. “If untreated in the first weeks of infection, the sufferer becomes erratic, insomniac and eventually physically violent. The parents recognised the symptoms but couldn’t see past their own fear and kicked the boy out rather than attempt treatment,” Sherlock says, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice. John is inclined to agree with him.

“So her throat was slit but where’s the murder weapon?” Lestrade is questioning.

“A switchblade, about four inches long; there’s a small nick about a quarter of an inch from the bottom of the blade, poor quality alloy,” Sherlock says dismissively.

“How, how could you possibly…” Lestrade begins. Sherlock holds up the knife in a latex gloved hand for Lestrade’s benefit and quirks an eyebrow. “The brother threw it from the smashed window.”

Lestrade gestures to a member of the forensic team, who collects the murder weapon from Sherlock in a plastic evidence bag, and Sherlock hands over the necklace as well.

“How do we catch him then?” John asks, but Sherlock’s frowning. He turns on his heels and says he’s going to check something one more time before he strides back into the house. John lets him go, turning back to Lestrade to answer his questions about vampirism. John’s only seen two cases, both in his time in Afghanistan, where treatment was considerably less available and patients left to suffer until the virus drove them to attempt suicide. Neither patient survived.

He’s recounting the details to Lestrade when Sherlock storms back out of the house. One of the officers standing at the door mutters something John can’t hear and Sherlock immediately begins berating the poor man. Sherlock’s doing his utmost to keep from raising his voice but he is clearly annoyed, and the officer is spluttering angrily back.

“I better run interference,” John remarks mildly, inclining his head towards a scowling Sherlock and a very pissed off police officer. Lestrade rolls his eyes, and they make their way over to the two men. Sherlock is standing very close to the officer now, drawing himself up to his full height and using his commanding presence to maximum effect. A few others have joined the fray, forming a loose circle around Sherlock and the officer as they continue their heated debate.

“…figures the Freak would defend them,” a sergeant is muttering as John and Lestrade approach. The sergeant quickly claps his mouth shut when he catches the steely glint in John’s eye, and John steps into Sherlock’s space easily, laying a hand on his arm.

Sherlock immediately stiffens at the touch. He snaps something, the acerbic last word, at the gathered officers, before turning to walk away. He doesn’t look to see if John is following and John’s hand is still resting on his arm. John knows he should lift his hand but with Sherlock appearing so accepting of the contact, and John desiring it so strongly, he can’t bring himself to let Sherlock’s arm go. He wants _more_ , he knows what that bloody coat feels like, but what’s on John’s mind are questions like what’s his shirt made of, how would it _feel under John’s fingertips, what does his skin underneath feel like_. He clenches his teeth and forces the thoughts to disperse. Sherlock’s not looking, so he won’t have noticed. That’s good. John holds on to the pleasantly rough material of Sherlock’s sleeve as they walk back towards the main road to get a taxi home. He hears Lestrade calling to them that if they turn up anything else to keep him posted as the DI begins simultaneously dispersing the gathered officers and reprimanding the man whose comment started the whole thing.

“So what was that all about, hmm?” John asks, when he and Sherlock settle into the journey back to the flat. Sherlock is quiet, his body rigid as he grips his phone in mute annoyance. John sighs, knowing he won’t get much out of his flatmate right now, with the mood he’s in. He’s just started wondering how much of the weekend’s leftovers in the fridge will still be edible when Sherlock breaks his silence.

“Vampirism is a very misunderstood condition, John. Although cases of violence are extremely rare, the public perception still persists, moronically, that those suffering from the disease are highly volatile and dangerous. With the proper treatment this need not be the case. The officer expressed his ill-informed disgust at those who suffer alone, I tried to make him see sense. Needless to say, he was unreceptive to reason.”

“You sound as though you’re speaking from experience, Sherlock,” John murmurs, risking a glance at his flatmate. Sherlock’s face is stony, his mouth pulled tight, and he doesn’t respond. John wonders if maybe he’s thinking of his homeless network, if Sherlock knows other men and women who, like poor Michelle Longford’s brother, were forcibly prevented from accessing proper medical care. His heart slumps, in sympathy for the outsiders in the world unfortunate enough to be betrayed by their genetics, and in resigned frustration that anyone could be so callous to a family member or friend in need. The feeling stays with him until they get home.

The rest of the day passes more calmly, as Sherlock plants himself in his chair with his laptop and furiously researches lamiastis, occasionally throwing out the odd question to John. In between trips to the kitchen for tea and food, John answers as best he can. He sets down a plate of biscuits at Sherlock’s side, hoping that maybe one or two will unconsciously find their way into the detective’s mouth, and attempts to translate the less familiar medical jargon as Sherlock plunders journals and research papers looking for who the hell knows what. After a particularly detailed question about erythrocytes, Sherlock goes quiet, just reading and clicking occasionally. Later, when his stomach begins to make its emptiness known, John busies himself heating up the leftovers in the fridge and replacing the half-eaten biscuits on the table beside Sherlock. He sighs as Sherlock lets the food go cold, and take the plate away an hour later to wash up. John returns to his chair with his book. The evening passes by quietly, and he drifts into a light doze.

He wakes with a start, yawns and glances at his watch, realising dimly that it’s nearly 11pm. He’s just standing up to stretch when Sherlock suddenly looks up from the laptop, his features highlighted by the white-blue glow of the screen.

Sherlock’s eyes are softer than normal, and John swears what he sees there is almost akin to affection. As soon as John notices though whatever it was vanishes, leaving behind the calculating, mesmerising gaze he’s grown so used to.

They stay that way for a long moment, holding each other’s eyes a little longer than John thinks is appropriate for flatmates, or best friends, or whatever the hell they’re supposed to call each other. John can feel Sherlock thinking and doesn’t flinch from it. He has no idea what’s going on in that massive, restless brain, probably about a dozen things at once, but he could happily watch Sherlock think all day long. It’s probably something to do with the case, John decides. Maybe he’s figured out where the victim’s brother is hiding. He’s about to ask but then Sherlock looks back down at the screen, and again, the moment is broken. He imagined there was affection in Sherlock’s face earlier, that fond look he’s only seen briefly once before.

John sighs, stretches, and announces he is going to bed. Sherlock doesn’t look up or speak when John wishes him goodnight, he’s staring at a spot on the wall beside the window, clearly way too absorbed in his thoughts or his bloody mind palace to notice John’s gone. With an accepting smile to himself, John goes upstairs. But he lies awake in the darkness for a while, wondering fruitlessly if he could maybe have been right about earlier, about Sherlock showing warmth towards him, about that being his jumper Sherlock’s face was smushed into this morning. He finally drifts off to sleep asking himself where said mysterious oatmeal material could have disappeared to since they came back.

******

Sherlock’s research comes to an abrupt halt at about 2am. It’s clear from the victim’s social media accounts that she had been searching for her brother and was desperate to have him back. She’d even sent messages to him, offering to be his donor. At first there’d been a few replies, mostly him telling her he was fine, he was coping, despite the circumstances. When it became apparent that he had run out money, her posts and messages became more frantic. What little cash he had pulled before their parents closed the account was never going to have lasted very long. The siblings were obviously devoted to each other, with Michelle’s increasing loathing of her parents pushing her farther from them and closer to her estranged brother. No doubt the unintentional consequence of disowning one’s youngest child, Sherlock muses, stamping down hard on any whisperings from darker recesses of his mind which want to spend time examining that particular train of thought.

With a jolt, it clicks into place and he knows that Robbie Longford is still hiding near to where he killed his sister, unwilling to move on and unable to stop the virus ravaging through his system.

Sherlock wants to chase down this new lead, go looking for Robbie in the area around the crime scene. But John has gone to bed, will be fast asleep by now. He’s probably lying tangled in his sheets, he tosses and turns in his sleep. His deep blue eyes are closed, soft golden lashes brushing his cheek. His body runs warm too, Sherlock can feel it when he’s standing near to John. He’ll have pushed down the thick duvet but it’ll be wrapped around his legs and waist. His upper body is bared to the cool night air in the room. Steady, soft breathing, his powerful chest gently rising and falling. Would there be a light dusting of sandy hair there? What would it feel like to stroke his fingers across that hair, to feel it tickling his face? What does his scar look like, writing into his flesh the pain and loss John has suffered? Sherlock has never really seen it, not up close. What would the scar feel like against his lips, what would it taste like? Would John have thrown his arms wide across the mattress, or is his right up above his head, or are they both by his sides? Is one hand resting on his abdomen, a weight both light and unremarkable, but solid and comforting at the same time, like it was today? When John’s hand found its way to his sleeve, and stayed there for too long (too short) a time? When it had taken away all the sensation in Sherlock’s arm when it finally lifted, leaving his arm and his chest (and his heart) feeling cold, tight, pinched, like a small piece of him had been neatly cut away with a scalpel?

When had Sherlock ascended the stairs to John’s bedroom door, pressed his face against the hard wood, his ears alert for the soft noises coming from within, his hand reaching for the door knob but hovering just millimetres away?

Startled from his thoughts, Sherlock blinks rapidly in the dim light of the landing, trying furiously to get his transport back under control. He feels hot, there are prickles spreading all over his skin, and a dull throbbing in his groin and abdomen. This is really getting out of hand, even Sherlock can recognise that standing outside your flatmate’s bedroom door, listening to him sleep, imagining…. Things. Bit not good.

And since when he had become so easily distracted while on a case?! This has happened before, thoughts of John interrupting the flow of data through his mind, but it has only been minor details he’d noticed. Like the way John glances up at the screen, his brow a little furrowed, as he reads back over a bit of his latest blog entry. Or the stain ring left by his tea mug on the side table. The subtle grey in his hair, how his hair brushes his ears when it gets too long.

Distraction. Sherlock needs a distraction from his distraction. Quietly making his way back downstairs, he gathers his thoughts, shrugs on his coat and drops his phone into his pocket. Then he leaves the flat, pulling the sturdy black door soundlessly shut behind him.

******

John wakes up just before dawn, feeling refreshed despite only grabbing a few hours’ sleep. He had a weird dream though, that Sherlock had come up to his room, stood in the doorway, looking lost and unsure. John had smiled, wriggled back to make space in the bed for the detective’s lithe frame. Sherlock lay down, his back to John, an arm’s length of space between them. John pulled him in close, nose in his fluffy curls, inhaling the rich scent of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive hair products, basking in the warmth of his body. They’d fallen asleep together, and John had felt a happiness he’d never known before surge through him.

Now though, the dream was quickly fading, and John hadn’t woken to Sherlock resting peacefully in his arms. Stupid fantasy anyway, John scolds himself, but the faint flicker of hope that one day he might open his eyes to Sherlock lying next to him refuses to disappear completely.

Groaning, John forces himself upright in the bed, untangling the duvet from around his legs and rubbing his bare chest and shoulders. The scar on the left one feels itchy this morning, and John gets up scowling at his body. He barely has any feeling in that part of his shoulder anymore, but for some reason his brain has decided it needs attention at the moment.

Pressing his fingers stubbornly into the knot of mangled tissue, John picks up his tatty dressing gown and goes downstairs.

The flat feels cold and empty. Sherlock’s gone out, he’s not in the kitchen, pacing in the sitting room, curled into his chair or draped on the sofa. John hesitates for a moment before going to Sherlock’s bedroom door and calling his name through it. He’s greeted by silence. He opens the door and peers inside, just in case the daft git has fallen asleep sitting up or something, but there’s no-one there.

John takes a minute standing in the doorway, feeling oddly like he’s wandered into a reverse of his dream. He takes a deep breath, looking around the room he’s only been in once or twice in all the time they’ve lived together. He feels a little guilty, as if he’s invading Sherlock’s privacy somehow, and backs away from the threshold, closing the door firmly.  
Sighing, John turns back towards the kitchen with the intention of making tea. He flicks on the kettle and grabs his phone from where he left it on the table last night. He fires off a quick text to Sherlock.

_Where are you? Break in the case? –JW_

The kettle bubbles noisily and John wills himself not to stare at his phone, waiting for a reply. Sherlock always replies, immediately. It’s not unusual for him to go running off without thinking of John, but he’s been doing that less and less since he came back. Especially after Ma… after… that. It’s almost like he knows John gets a little anxious; it’s stupid, but Sherlock seems to have conceded that maybe he shouldn’t just disappear into thin air quite so much.

Hmm, still no reply. John dumps hot water over the teabag in his mug and picks up his phone again, this time pulling up Lestrade’s number. He types a message to the DI, hoping he’s awake at this hour.

_Sherlock was researching something last night, looked like he might be on to a lead. Is he with you? –JW_

Lestrade’s reply is almost instant.

_At the office, bloody paperwork. He’s not here mate. Maybe try Barts? – GL_

That’s possible, John thinks. Maybe Sherlock wanted to get another look at Michelle Longford’s body? But Molly isn’t usually in until 10am, and the other pathologists in the lab won’t let Sherlock anywhere near the front door, let alone into the morgue. John picks up his phone again.

_Where are you? Can’t tell the world how brilliant you are if I’m not there to see it - JW_

That was a bit of a risk, that last part. Still, John is confident that appealing to Sherlock’s vanity will get him a response, and he’s not wrong. His phone chirps shamelessly as Sherlock’s reply comes in.

_Located brother at crime scene. Condition unknown. Need more data. – SH_

Oh, for fuck’s sake… John sighs and texts Sherlock back in his sternest voice.

_On my way. Bringing Lestrade. And back up. If you’re right about the lamiastis, the guy’s on a hair trigger by now. Don’t do anything stupid. - JW_

John decides to shower later, slurps down the rest of his tea and, dialling Lestrade this time, sprints back upstairs to pull on some clothes.

******

John and Lestrade, and what seems like half of the Met’s armed response unit, arrive at the crime scene in less than half an hour. Lestrade barks orders at the assembled officers before nodding to John to take up a position not far from vehicles. John rolls his eyes but goes reluctantly. There’s still no sign of Sherlock, and as the officers approach the building, John pulls out his phone again, caught between the desire to text Sherlock and find out what the hell he’s doing, and the concern that doing so might give him away if he’s hiding or something.

Suddenly they hear shouting and a crash coming from the house. John’s throat suddenly tightens up, _where the fuck is Sherlock?_ He rushes forward into the house, but just as he’s reaching the front door there’s a horrific scream and a figure comes flying through one of the only windows still with glass in it, way up on the sixth floor. They land face down in front of the main door, lying lifeless on the cold stone steps.

John freezes. He can’t look, he can’t breathe. All he can see is Sherlock falling from the roof of Barts, landing on the pavement, bleeding… dead. He fiercely shakes the memory away and calmly approaches the body. Blinking, breathing heavily in an attempt to steady his heart rate, he takes in the young man as Lestrade barks orders at his officers, yelling at them to call an ambulance and clear the rest of the property as they swarm inside.  
John bends down to the body in the entryway. It’s not Sherlock. He feels for a pulse but the boy is gone.

The man himself is walking towards John now, and John’s heart is instantly lifted. Sherlock is carrying himself a bit funny, holding his coat closed across his chest with both hands. John scrutinises him carefully as he stops to look down at the body. Sherlock seems unhurt, and he’s not outwardly showing any pain or discomfort. In fact, he looks perfectly normal, except that his hair is a bit unruly and there’s a faint sheen of sweat and dust on his face.

“Are you ok?” John asks, reaching out a hand. Sherlock flinches back slightly, “I’m fine!” he snaps. John smiles humourlessly and levels his best Captain Watson look at Sherlock, who eventually rolls his eyes and replies more softly this time.

“I’m fine John, he just startled me by diving out of the window.” Sherlock gestures down at the body next to them.

The boy is young, no more than fifteen, his long dark hair covering most of his face. He’s wearing a scruffy hoodie, jogging bottoms and scuffed trainers. There’s dried blood all over his clothes in large patches, and although John’s not a forensic tech, he can see the tell-tale splatter and patterns. There’s also dried blood around the boy’s nose and mouth, and cuts on his hands. Presumably from where he held the knife, and it slipped with his ragged movements. John realises in dismay that this must be Michelle Longford’s brother. Sighing sadly, he stands up.

“I guess the case is solved then. What a horrible waste,” he says sadly.

Sherlock is unmoved, gazing down at the body with an unreadable expression. He raises his eyes to John’s and for a split second John thinks he sees something there. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was fear. That’s not right though, Sherlock never gets frightened, or at least, he never seems to.

John frowns, and resolves to make absolutely certain Sherlock is unharmed as soon as they back to the flat and he can check as much of Sherlock’s body as he can, surreptitiously if he has to.

Lestrade comes over, wants the full story. Sherlock’s answers seem stilted, which isn’t helping John’s anxiety at all.

“Greg,” John says firmly, “We’re going home. Statements later, we’ll come to your office.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes but acquiesces. Sherlock flinches again when John gently takes his elbow to guide him to the main road and hail a cab, and he sits with his whole body angled away from John the entire way home. As soon as they’re back at the flat, Sherlock practically runs into his bedroom, slamming the door.

Confused, anxious and more than a little angry, John knocks at the closed door. He tries the handle, but then Sherlock flings the door open and stands there. He’s changed his shirt and is deliberately blocking John’s view into the room. Probably got some nauseating experiment in there, John thinks half-heartedly. Must’ve been hidden away somewhere John couldn’t have seen it earlier this morning then.

Sherlock’s standing rigidly in the doorway, his eyes issuing a haughty challenge. John can see through the imperiousness, can see Sherlock is more shaken than he’s letting on, but any attempt to coax it out of him, no matter how softly, will be met with harsh words and insults, Sherlock lashing out to avoid feeling vulnerable. John knows this and he forces himself to calm the feelings roiling around in his guts.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re alright,” he says steadily. “Why’d you change?”

“Robbie Longford was filthy and it transferred to my shirt when I bent down to check his pulse before he threw himself out of the window. I’ll bag the shirt, Lestrade may need it as evidence.”

John raises his eyebrows, he still wants to check Sherlock for injuries. Robbie Longford was suffering from the later stages of a serious illness, who knows what he might’ve done when confronted? But Sherlock pushes past him into the bathroom. The shower starts up and John decides to try a different tactic.

“What do you want for lunch? You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he calls through the door, mentally working through what’s in the cupboards and whether or not it may still be edible. “I think we have some bread, and maybe a little bit of that fancy cheese left, I could make posh cheese on toast?”

Sherlock’s voice is muffled but steady when he replies.

“That will be fine. I’m not injured John, just filthy. You can come in and check if you like. I should advise you that I am in a state of undress, although I haven’t fully disrobed yet.”

John’s eyebrows leap back up to his hairline, and he pushes into the bathroom. Sherlock is sitting on the closed toilet seat, he’s still wearing his clean shirt but he’s removed his shoes, trousers and socks. John thinks this a tad odd, but at least Sherlock has let him in. He takes his time with what little of Sherlock he can see, and approaches him carefully, hands held up in a placating gesture. Sherlock rolls his eyes but submits to John’s careful touch as he runs his hands over Sherlock’s chest, sides and back. John thinks he feels something on Sherlock’s left side, just below his armpit, and meets Sherlock’s eye, one eyebrow raised questioningly. Sherlock merely shrugs, muttering something about that always being there. John frowns, he doesn’t remember there being a mark there but he doesn’t push further.

Sherlock is still somewhat buzzing with post-case energy and is fast losing patience with John’s steady gaze and hands assessing his body for hidden injuries. Finally, after some rather pointed sighing from his patient, John looks up at Sherlock’s face, his “you’re being dull John, please stop it now” expression firmly in place.

“I hope you’re satisfied now? My body is unharmed, which is more than I can say for my shirt,” Sherlock intones dryly.

John sniggers, thinking that if he didn’t want his fancy shirts ruined perhaps he shouldn’t wear them to grubby crime scenes and tangle with filthy killers, but he keeps the thought to himself.

He turns to leave Sherlock to his shower and to start their lunch of bread (with the mouldy bits scraped off) and (hopefully still in-date) cheese. He closes the bathroom door gently as he goes, so he misses the fleeting look of anguish that crosses Sherlock’s face. John doesn’t see the hand pressing to Sherlock’s left side, just below his armpit, over the small wound he’s concealing.

The bite is no larger than a fifty pence piece, the punctures are by now sealed and scabbed over, but the unusually elongated canines in Robbie Longford’s mouth had sunk deep into the flesh, and the virus is already taking hold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to hide his symptoms from John, but the good doctor is more observant than he thinks. John learns a little bit about Sherlock's childhood and makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story has had a waaaaaay better reception than I ever thought it would, a mahoosive thank you to everyone who has read and commented so far!! I have a pretty good idea of where I want this to go, hopefully I'll be able to do your lovely comments justice. Writing this is proving more draining for me than I expected but I'm going to try and keep to a regular schedule of updates. Please bear with me!

Sherlock steps gratefully under the stream of hot water, allowing it to rinse away the filth he feels is coating his skin. Robbie Longford hadn’t any idea what he was doing at the time. 

Sherlock had approached him quietly, reaching down over him to take his pulse. Robbie just reacted instinctively to the presence of a live body near to him, senses tuned to the thump of Sherlock’s heart in his chest, the virus raging through his veins causing a desperate urge to bite and suck at that heart, consuming the vital liquid therein. He’d jerked up towards Sherlock’s leaning body, extended canines (one of the more gruesome features of the virus’ advanced stages) latching fiercely into the flesh of Sherlock’s side. As soon as he had drawn a small amount of blood into his mouth, the fog of the virus seemed to instantly clear, and he released Sherlock to crash back onto the hard floor, knocking over some boards stacked against the wall. Sherlock saw the self-disgust and pure self-hatred swimming in Robbie’s tears. Robbie stood up sharply, and turned away with an agonised, screaming sob. Still shocked at the intensity of the bite, his mind a tangled mess, Sherlock had tried to placate the tormented boy. He managed to get his feet under him and tried to stand, stretching out a hand, but then Robbie turned back to face him and met his eyes, calm and determined. 

In that moment there was nothing to be said or done. Robbie reached into his pocket, withdrawing the matching half of the pendant on his sister’s necklace. He placed the pendant in Sherlock’s outstretched palm, turned and ran towards the window. Sherlock can still hear the shatter of the large glass pane as Robbie’s body connected with it, and the sickeningly dull thud of his landing on the stone outside. 

The water in the shower has turned cold now but that’s not what’s causing Sherlock to shiver, as he very well knows. It’s the virus, the lamiastis transmitted from Robbie in his bite. Mycroft will be… what will Mycroft be? Annoyed? Smug? Disappointed? For once, Sherlock isn’t sure how his brother will react to this situation. Mycroft had insisted on the genetic testing, among a battery of other tests, the last time Sherlock had been in rehab nearly nine years ago.

The V1PR3 positive result had been delivered to his tiny flat in Montague Street, his brother standing in the doorway, leaning on one of his stupid umbrellas, holding the apparently innocuous brown envelope in one gloved hand. Mycroft had always hated that flat, with its streaked windows, dodgy locks and even dodgier neighbours. All of which had of course made Sherlock all the more determined to remain there. At first he’d thought Mycroft had only come to annoy him into moving, finding a new place to live away from the unsavoury elements he had been drawn to there in the first place. He’d read a little about the newly classified lamiastis virus, thinking the subsequent public panic dull and moronic. 

The look in Mycroft’s eyes as he raised the brown envelope into Sherlock’s line of sight though, that had stopped him as he opened his mouth to make a snarky retort. The fear in his brother’s eyes had been fleeting, evaporating in a blink, but it was real enough. Sherlock merely nodded, and Mycroft left the envelope beside the door, his footsteps sounding heavily on the stairs as he departed. 

Shortly thereafter, Sherlock had mentioned finding a suitable flatmate in passing to Mike Stamford and a fascinating ex-army doctor had psychosomatically limped into his life. 

John. What will John think, now that Sherlock is infected with a horrible, life-altering illness? John is a doctor, John takes care of his patients. Sherlock is often a patient of John’s, so this will be no different. 

Except, it will be different. Sherlock will have to consume blood, to hold back the rising tide in his cells. He will be bound to a pattern of regular feeding, requiring access to a supply from a donor or bags of uncontaminated blood from Molly. A donor is the better option, but the only person nearby and probably willing enough is John. 

Would John allow Sherlock to bite him? To hold him close and sink his canines into soft flesh, gently drawing out the life-giving liquid pulsing through John’s body? Or would he think it a “bit not good”, to allow a friend, even a best friend, to lap at a bitten wound and feel the connection, the emotional high, stretched taut between you? Would it be only a small step from there to having John as his, the way he constantly yearns for? But it’d be a small step he couldn’t force himself to take, for fear of losing what little he has. 

Sherlock turns off the water and steps out of the shower. He wipes the mirror above the sink and stands there in the small room for a moment, evaluating the reflection of his naked body. 

He knows that some find him attractive, maybe even John, and he’s used this knowledge in the past to extract information or manipulate a suspect or witness. He’s learned how to clothe his tall, slim frame, how to tame his unruly mop of hair, how to duplicate expressions and mannerisms to convey his supposed interest. For all this he still can’t see what others see. Critically appraising what the mirror shows him, he sees harsh lines and sharp angles, long limbs and deathly pale skin, strange eyes and an exaggeratedly shaped mouth. He sees only his flaws, imperfections, blemishes, scars. 

If he were to ask himself, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to say where it comes from. With all his superior intellect and memory, he’s still unable to pick out to a definite point in time at which he became aware of just how much he hates himself. It’s always been there, the wretched self-loathing, a black mass wedged just under his ribs, occasionally forgotten or dimmed but always present. Sometimes it’s quiet, lying dormant at the edge of everything, just waiting. Sometimes it expands, pushing at his chest, trying to force its way through his heart and lungs and ribs, into the daylight to be visible to anyone who looks. A twisted, screeching, hideous apparition, reviled and revolting, terrifying and invincible. 

He can see it now, his imgination giving it life, making it ooze from the barely visible mark in his side. His hand comes to the wound involuntarily, his fingers pushing at the bite as if to squash dripping black pus back into its cage in his body. The pain lancing through him as he presses on it goes unnoticed as a vague kind of panic sets in that John will see it, John is a doctor, John will know instantly what this foul substance is. And John will reel back in horror, in disgust. His eyes will be sad and pitiful, he will finally see through Sherlock’s defences to the pathetic waste hidden inside the arrogant, cocky detective with the brilliant mind. Sherlock will no longer be brilliant to John, just a lonely, loathsome, shameful creature. Unworthy of his praise, unworthy of his love. And Sherlock will allow the black mass to swallow him. 

Meeting his own eyes in the mirror he abhors the sheer terror present in them, the tears forming and slipping slowly down his face. His hand is still pressing hard into the wound, only now the pain is a dull throb, the edges worn away to leave a constant thrum in the background of his thoughts. The black purulence is receding, returning to its resting place. Dimly Sherlock can now hear John puttering around in the kitchen and tries to steady his breathing. 

Ripping his gaze away from the image in the mirror, he grabs a towel and his bundle of clothes and flees to his bedroom. He locks the door and dries himself roughly, pulling on his clothes thoughtlessly. He sinks down to the floor, his back resting against the wall beside the door, and drops his head into his hands. The pain of the bite has all but faded now, leaving a just a small mark and a steadily rising fever.

The black mass simmers below his skin, watchful. 

****** 

John hears the water go off in the shower as he plates up two slices of cheese on toast for each of them. Sherlock seems a bit off but that’s maybe just due to the case ending, and not in a good way. He may for all outsiders appear to be a callous, heartless bastard, but John knows better. He’s seen a Sherlock who’ll throw an intruder out of a window for laying hands on their landlady, a Sherlock who has helped countless families, who still helps those most in need with a well-placed £50 note in exchange for information. A Sherlock who died to save his friends, for God’s sake. 

Robbie Longford’s death could’ve been avoided if he’s been able to seek proper treatment and John’s blood still boils at the parents’ thoughtlessness in regard to their son. He’ll let it go and focus on those lives in which he can make a difference, following and taking good care of his consulting detective.

The bathroom door bangs as Sherlock sweeps into his room in a blur that John hardly sees as he carries the plates to the kitchen table. Sherlock’s bedroom door suddenly slams shut and there’s a faint click of a lock John didn’t think still functioned. That’s odd. Usually Sherlock would be sitting down with him now, discussing this or that, before the inevitable post-case slumber. John thinks maybe this case has gotten to Sherlock more than he realised. He immediately stamps down hard on the wave of panic that tries to rise up in his throat, refusing to allow it to take hold. Sherlock is fine, probably. Just needs some food and a nap and he’ll be back to leaving intestines in the microwave and complaining loudly about the idiocy of the general population, John included. 

John leaves the rapidly congealing cheesy mess on the plates and cautiously approaches Sherlock’s door. He calls Sherlock’s name softly as he walks down the hall, making sure to keep his voice light and even. He presses his ear to the cool wood of the door, his hand automatically resting on the handle. There’s no sound from within. An oppressive, heavy silence punctuated by the sounds of the street outside has settled like a blanket over the flat. Swallowing another bout of panic, John rattles the door handle gently to try and coax some noise out of his friend somewhere inside the room. 

“Sherlock? Look, if you don’t fancy cheese on toast it’s fine, right now I’m not even sure I could stomach that greasy crap melted onto stale, lukewarm bread. I think the toaster’s on the blink again, did you put anything in it?”

There’s no reply. Undeterred, John carries on waffling. 

“You need to eat, Sherlock. When’s the last time you had a proper meal? Or even a bit of one? I, um, I can go to Tesco? We need a few things anyway, pretty sure there’s no oven cleaner left after that experiment, whatever it was, with the fingernails? Maybe get some of that soup you liked? And some more veg, meat, noodles and stuff. Oh, and we definitely need biscuits, you ate Mrs Hudson’s entire supply last week and I promised I’d replenish it!”

Still no answer. John rattles the door handle more forcefully, steadying his breathing to keep his voice neutral and calm. 

“Whatever it is Sherlock, just…” he fumbles for the right thing to say. What he really wants to do is tell Sherlock that he can let John in, tell him all his secrets, his fears and desires, John will look after them as carefully and protect them as fiercely he does their owner. John isn’t going anywhere, home is wherever he can be beside Sherlock. But that would be laying too many cards out on the table, face up. Opening himself up to Sherlock’s derision, abhorrence of sentiment. Rejection. John could probably take it, he could, but better to keep things close to his chest and not risk it. For now, at least.

Sighing, he puts both of his hands on the door, his head resting between them. Let me in, Sherlock, he pleads silently. 

“Soup will suffice. But make sure you get the Finest one, the value brand tastes awful, I refuse to subject my palate to that utter swill. And get more sink unblocker as well as oven cleaner. At least 5 litres. And sandwich bags. And see if there are any out of date yoghurts. Plain, or Greek. Either will do.”

Sherlock’s voice is quieter than usual but steady. John huffs in fond annoyance at the bizarre shopping list issuing from behind the door, and adds Sherlock’s demands to the other items on the list in his head. 

“Right, try not to burn or dissolve anything important while I’m out then,” John says through the door. Sherlock must be getting into his dressing gown or something, there’s a brief sound of fabric shuffling. 

John lifts his head and strokes on hand down the smooth surface of the door before turning to walk back through the flat to pick up his jacket and gloves. He glances out of the window at the dull day outside. It’s started snowing again. He checks his pockets for keys and wallet and calls out to Sherlock in the bedroom as he leaves to head down the stairs. 

While he’s out he can make a quick stop to pick up a Christmas present for Sherlock, he thinks. That antiques and rare books shop isn’t too far away, maybe he’ll find inspiration there. 

Heartened, John stuffs his hands into his gloves and braves the London chill. 

****** 

The walk back to the flat is slow going, laden with a few bags from Tesco and a paper bag wrapped in a plastic bag tucked under his arm. John is trying to keep Sherlock’s Christmas present dry. He’d managed to find a late 19th century scientific text in the rare books place, albeit a slightly newer reprint. Still, he thinks Sherlock will enjoy poring over the diagrams, formulas and figures, will take pleasure from the language and images and the smooth, worn leather of the covering. 

John reaches the front door to 221B, sets his bags down away from the damp slush on the steps and fishes in his pockets for his keys. Gathering his purchases and pushing open the door, he makes his way up to the flat. 

He calls to Sherlock, whose bedroom door is still closed, to let him know John’s back. He’s putting away the food (as far away from the questionable containers in the fridge as the limited space will allow, thank you very much), when he hears it. 

Retching. 

He abandons the fridge and dashes down the hallway, hammering on Sherlock’s door. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, let me in, for God’s sake! Let me take a look at you, you’ve obviously caught something!”

The retching sounds continue for a moment, then die away. 

John takes a step back, thinking about how best to put his good shoulder to the door to make it give way when the lock clicks. Surprised, John pushes the door open carefully and pokes his head into the darkened room. 

Sherlock is lying on top of the sheets, clutching a corner of the material. He’s curled into a ball on the bed, facing away from the door. He’s shivering and trembling, dressed only in pyjama bottoms. The room smells sour, of the bile and liquid his body has expelled into the wastepaper bin that normally sits empty in the far corner. He winces as the light from the hallway spills into the room, and pulls the sheet bunched up in his hands over his head. 

John immediately switches to doctor mode and begins assessing Sherlock’s symptoms, quickly pulling the door shut behind him to plunge the room into near blackness. 

“Sherlock? I’m going to go fetch a few things then I’m coming right back to take a proper look at you. Don’t get up, it’ll make the nausea worse. Just lie still, I’ll just be a minute. Alright?”

Sherlock’s curls bounce gently as he nods, John struggling to see the gesture in the dim light. He slips out of the room as quickly and quietly as he can so as not to provoke Sherlock’s discomfort in the brightness. He gets his med kit form under the bathroom sink, fills a glass with water and finds a couple of clean towels. His mind is running through possibilities, where Sherlock could’ve picked up an infection, how had it taken hold so quickly? There’s really only one thing that fits, all the signs point to, but John can’t see how Sherlock could have lamiastis. He was only in proximity to Robbie Longford for seconds. According to his account Robbie just startled him when he found him. He pushed past Sherlock and was then running straight to the window and leaping to his death. They didn’t come into close enough contact for transference. And anyway, lamiastis only affects those genetically predisposed to the virus. So does that mean Sherlock’s been tested? Mycroft would know about the testing, but no matter what the ultimate diagnosis, John’s first priority is as always to tend to his patient’s immediate needs.

He gathers his supplies and makes his way back to Sherlock’s room, warning him to cover his face before he opens the door. It seems Sherlock has for once listened to John’s instructions and he hasn’t moved. The trembling has subsided a little but there’s still an occasional shiver racking his body. John moves the wastepaper bin away from the side of the bed, grimacing at the limited contents of Sherlock’s stomach. He sits down next to Sherlock and lays his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to rouse him a little. 

Sherlock’s reaction is instantaneous, he recoils from John’s touch and cries out in pain.

“Shit, I’m sorry Sherlock,” John says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. Sherlock mumbles something inaudible, curling in tighter on himself. 

John knows the sensitivity to touch will come and go but he’s loathe to cause Sherlock any unnecessary pain. The shivering starts again in earnest and John desperately wants to shelter Sherlock’s body, make him feel clean from the sweat-soaked sheets underneath him, cradle him in his arms until the fever passes. He wets one of the towels and brushes it gently over Sherlock’s damp curls. This time Sherlock doesn’t recoil, but John’s not sure if it’s only because he can barely feel the light pressure on his scalp. 

John encourages Sherlock to sit up a little so he can have a few sips of water, handing him the glass and helping Sherlock lift it to his mouth. His face twists as he grips the glass, the muscles and joints in his hands and arms are obviously sore. John takes the glass from him and sets it on the bedside table. He manages to get a thermometer into Sherlock’s ear without too much protesting or pain, and does not like what the reading tells him. He gets Sherlock to lie down once more, and watches as his eyes flutter closed. The shivering subsides again, the nausea seems to have settled as well. John tries to make sure he’s comfortable, then moves away to the end of the bed to gather his thoughts. 

John realises that what Sherlock will actually need, will need on a regular basis once these initial stages are over, is fresh blood. 

John would have no compunction about offering himself as a donor, but he has no idea how that will be received. The boundaries between them have always been paper thin lines, but that feels like crossing a bridge then firebombing it as soon as your feet touch the other side. 

A flash of inspiration comes to John – Molly. Molly could probably provide a small bag of blood from the hospital, or could collect some of John’s. Rising from the bed with a plan formed in his head, John leaves the room to phone Dr Hooper. 

She picks up on the third ring.

“Hi John!” she says brightly. 

“Hi Molly.” John tries not to sound worried but Molly can be more astute than any of them really give her credit for. 

“What is it John? What do you need?”

John grips the phone tightly and sends a silent thank you to a God he’s not sure he believes in any more for the Molly Hoopers of the world. 

****** 

Sherlock is drifting. He can sense a presence in the room and at first he’s frightened of it, all he can make out are shapes and blobs. The grey blob by the door comes closer and Sherlock unconsciously shrinks back a little, but then the blob speaks and it sounds like John. John’s voice, soothing and warm like a balm on his prickling skin. He can’t make out what the John-blob is saying and he wants to tell it not to go, not to leave him here, to bring back the real John. But when he tries to speak his mouth stumbles on the words, his tongue too heavy and his lips unresponsive. The John-blob seems worried, speaking urgently to someone. 

Sherlock tries to look for them, leaning up from where he’s been lying on his right side. The John-blob wants him to lie back down again, laying a hand close to the bite mark near his ribs.

Sherlock watches in horror as the black gunk seeps from the wound and starts to weave into the fingers of the hand. It pours across the skin, covering the surface and infecting everything in its path with Sherlock’s self-hatred. He frantically attempts to warn his caregiver, to push their fingers away from the disgusting mass leaking from Sherlock’s body. The blob doesn’t seem to understand and moves their hand further into the blackness, obscuring it from view. Sherlock is desperate now, imploring them to move, to stop letting it touch them, beseeching them not to allow it to be absorbed. He’s terrified and flailing, throwing himself up and over the edge of the bed. He lands on the cold floor with a thud and lies there still, unable to force his limbs to move. 

Then he feels a strong pair of hands caressing his sides, soothing and calming him. He hears a soft voice whispering to him, telling him it’s ok, it’s alright, hush now. The black is dispersing again, vanishing into nothingness in the air until it’s all gone. The seeping has stopped, it’s returning back into his body, contained once more. The warm hands are lifting him now, helping him stand and get back onto the bed. He lies down gratefully and rests his heavy head on the pillow, his eyes sliding shut.

There’s a cool touch of damp cloth at his forehead, and Sherlock relaxes into the sensation. The John-blob has obviously sent in the real John to take care of him. His John is close, he can smell the soft earthy tones that is John's natural scent and feel rough wool under his palms. He settles into the warmth surrounding him, feeling calm and safe again. 

Sherlock drifts again, this time allowing a deep sleep to pull him into oblivion. 

****** 

John is past concerned now, venturing into full-blown panic. Sherlock isn’t just nauseous and feverish, he’s hallucinating and delirious. He kept screaming about the black, how it was creeping up John’s arms and all over his hands, how John would be infected by its foulness. Then he threw himself out of bed and just lay there on the floor, unmoving.

For a brief moment John had thought he’d cracked his head open or something and a flare of desperation spiked hotly through his gut. Sherlock was weeping softly, unaware he was doing it. John got down beside him and spoke to him, trying to gentle him and push away this imaginary black stuff to reassure him. He could feel the small bite in Sherlock’s left side as he lifted Sherlock back onto the bed, hating how thin and fragile the man’s body felt, then settled next to him, Sherlock’s head resting on John’s chest. 

For a while they just lie there, then John brings his arms around Sherlock, wanting to hold him close and tight but unsure if the hyperesthesia has faded. He decides on stroking Sherlock’s hair with one hand and running the other down his spine as softly as he can. 

They stay that way for a long time, Sherlock in a deep sleep. Good, John thinks. His body needs the rest. Part of the reason for the astonishingly rapid progression of the virus, John suspects, is how close to exhaustion Sherlock must’ve been when he was infected. 

John forces himself to stay awake, periodically checking his phone for texts from Molly. He asked her to bring a kit he could keep in the flat from now on, and a small supply of feeding bags for blood donation. He’d hoped Molly would be able to bring some blood with her but it seems she can’t pull that off at the moment. Mycroft could probably help but John isn’t too eager to bring in the elder Holmes on this just yet. He’s acutely disappointed in himself for failing to protect Sherlock from being bitten and Mycroft will probably feel the same. He’s also sure that Sherlock would find such an intrusion extremely unwelcome once he recovers. 

So John’s options are limited. Molly is coming over to draw blood and to leave him with the means to do so again. There is no way John is letting Sherlock suffer in the same way as Robbie Longford. 

There’s footsteps in the hallway and a tentative knock on the door. John is loathe to leave Sherlock alone but he can’t let Molly see him like this. He gently disentangles himself from the sleeping form of his best friend and goes to greet Molly in the sitting room. 

Her eyes are wide, brimming with unshed tears, and the concern shows on her delicate, pretty face. She holds out the kit for John to take and follows him silently as he tips his head towards the kitchen. 

John sits down at the table and opens the bag. Inside are vacutainers, tubes, syringes, anti-septic wipes, latex gloves in their sterile packets and a couple of feeding bags. Molly is always thorough. He pulls out some of the supplies and takes a deep breath. He’s holding equipment he uses every day, routines he's known for years, but he can’t seem to get the next step to come to him. His hands are shaking minutely as he gazes stupidly down at the kit.

A gentle, feminine hand covers his. John stills. He looks up into Molly’s friendly brown eyes, blinking to clear the tears suddenly forming in the corners of his own. 

Wordlessly Molly stands, takes the tube and packet of latex gloves from him and hesitantly rubs his shoulder. John closes his eyes for a moment and lets her comfort him. Then, recognising the subtle shift in his demeanour, she’s all business again. 

Together, they draw the blood Sherlock needs. 

****** 

Molly leaves not long after, giving John one more soft pat on the shoulder before making her way downstairs. John has completely lost track of time, but he guesses it must be getting close to midnight at this point. 

Once Molly goes John returns to Sherlock’s side, climbing back onto the bed with him. Sherlock’s skin is cold and John pulls a blanket over them both, wincing as the fabric touches Sherlock’s skin. For now, at least, the sensitivity seems to have passed. He drifts off into a light doze beside his best friend, still alert for any signs of distress.

When he wakes a couple of hours later, Sherlock is clinging to him, his arm wrapped tightly across John’s chest and his legs interlocked with John’s under the blanket. John feels a tight bubble of joy in his chest at Sherlock’s heavy, comfortable weight lying on and next to him, but he daren’t allow the feeling to last long. He shifts a little, trying to move Sherlock just to the side so they’ll be in a less intimate position. Sherlock moans softly, deep in his throat, cuddling in closer and tightening his grip on John’s chest. 

John sighs and tries to force away the warmth of arousal lazily uncurling in his belly. Timing, Watson, he scolds himself. Sherlock moans in the back of his throat again and the low sound goes straight to John’s groin. Even in sleep, with a vicious virus coursing through his veins, Sherlock is an unhelpful git, he thinks ruefully. John settles in and stills himself as best he can, trying not to quiver too much. Sherlock finally stops moaning and stops moving, seemingly content that John isn’t going anywhere. John focuses on his breathing and thinks of amputated fingers in the fridge and jars of eyeballs in the cupboard where he keeps the tea to extinguish the arousal and get his half-hard prick back under control. Gradually the hot feeling in his groin ebbs away and he’s left feeling calmer, if slightly guilty, even given Sherlock’s complete lack of awareness at John’s slip-up. 

Well, if he’s stuck here for now he might as well indulge just a little. John looks down at Sherlock nestled in his arms and sighs again. Sherlock’s face is so young in sleep, its usual cold mask drawn away. John always thinks he’s beautiful but he’s even more so when all the harshness and aloofness is gone. People may think what they like, John has seen just glimpses of the vulnerability at the heart of Sherlock and it only makes John love him more deeply, the desire to protect and see him happy even stronger. 

Without letting himself think about it John lifts a hand and strokes through Sherlock’s hair, pushing bedraggled curls back from his face. He knows he has to wake Sherlock at some point, confirm the lamiastis and get a small quantity of blood into him to prevent the more debilitating symptoms worsening, but he can’t bring himself to end their embrace just yet. John holds Sherlock close and eventually falls asleep again, hoping it won’t be too awkward when they do wake up together.

****** 

Sherlock comes back to himself gradually, slowly allowing consciousness to creep in. His head and joints are aching in symphony, and he’s incredibly thirsty, but the fever seems to have broken at least. He’s warm despite being clothed in only his pyjama bottoms and a sheet, and there’s a comforting hand in his hair and another at his waist. He inhales deeply through his nose, breathing in the familiar scent and placing it instantly. The hands and the scent and the body heat are from his companion, which can only mean one person. 

John is still dozing but he won’t stay that way long. Sherlock is already starting to panic that he’s overstepped some social boundary in his sleep and John will be upset. No matter how badly Sherlock wants, John has made it clear throughout their friendship that he isn’t gay. How will he react to waking up with his very male flatmate snuggled up cosily next to him?

Sherlock tries to open his eyes and extricate himself somehow without waking John but the simple act of raising his head from John’s chest causes sharp agony to lance through his skull. He winces and gasps aloud, the throbbing in his temples and neck causing him to drop back onto John. 

“Don’t try to move too much, Sherlock,” John says, “but if you can let me up I’ll get you some water and then we can talk about what comes next.”

Sherlock forces himself to roll over, off of John and away to a safe distance on the other side of the bed. He stifles another gasp at the pain and squeezes his eyes tightly closed. He’s missing John’s warmth and the feeling of JOhn's hands on his body intensely. It’s fine, given a little time he can commit it to memory and store it carefully in his mind palace, alongside the sense memory of every touch John has given him over the past year they’ve been living together again. 

John leaves the bedroom with a glass in hand and is clearly trying not to make too much noise as he fills it in the kitchen and brings it back to Sherlock’s bedside. He’s also carrying a small plastic bag filed with dense liquid, which he sets on the bedside table. Curiosity outweighing the pain in his head, Sherlock looks across to see what it is. 

Blood. So John knows then, has diagnosed correctly. Sherlock is infected, weak, he’ll become a slave to his transport’s demands after all. _How disgustingly ordinary._

“Can you sit up for me?” John is asking. His voice is soft and he’s reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock again, offering help and comfort. Suddenly Sherlock can’t stand it, the concern and sincerity in John’s actions, the gentleness in John's eyes. He ignores the swimming and throbbing in his head and sits up forcefully. 

“I see you have already diagnosed me, Dr Watson, so go have a cup of tea and stop mollycoddling me. I can manage this perfectly well by myself from now on, so just leave me alone!” he snaps. 

John pulls his hand back quickly at the outburst and straightens up. 

“Ok, but I only want to help you, Sherlock. Lamiastis isn’t fatal or anything as long as you monitor it carefully, and you’re not exactly all that great at looking after yourself as it is…”

“Of course, _Doctor_ , this is just another thing to add to the list with which you constantly nag me. Eating, sleeping, not running out of cover into gunfire, cleaning up after an experiment, and so on. Things I am clearly incapable of knowing by myself, I need dear old long-suffering John Watson to remind me. I don’t need to be managed, John!”

‘I’m not trying to manage you, for fuck’s sake!” John grits out. “I just want… I’m just… I…” John rubs a hand through his hair and looks up. Even in the dim light of the room Sherlock can make out the sadness in his eyes. John’s pity makes Sherlock inexplicably more angry and he lashes out again.

“Keep going John, eventually you’ll manage a full sentence. In the meantime I’ll be consuming blood like a hideous monster from an appalling gothic novel. Just another flaw to take care of! Perhaps this time you’ll be able to save the poor creature, able to fix everything as you always wish to do. Always the caretaker, even when it is undesired, unnecessary and unsuccessful. You need only think of your sister to see how poor your record is in saving those beyond help. I don’t need your help, and I don’t need you to fix me John!”

Sherlock instantly regrets every single word. But he can’t take it back now, can’t show regret, so he stares John down as fiercely as he is able in the darkness. There’s steel in John’s eyes and Sherlock knows he’s holding back his anger. He clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides, refusing for once to rise to the bait. Sherlock wants him to get angry, to shout and yell and punch something, but John keeps it tethered this time, just staring back at him, breathing hard through his nose. 

The anger vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the same sadness in his eyes that Sherlock saw before. John draws himself up, nods swiftly and walks out of the room. The stairs creak and the front door bangs as he shuts it behind him. 

Sherlock curls back into a ball on the bed. He was angry and he doesn’t need John’s pity. He can manage this virus without help, in fact it’s better that John stays out of it. He’ll want to give blood for Sherlock to use, or worse, he’ll offer to be Sherlock’s donor. That would bring them even closer, remove all but the final barriers he’s erected to keep his feelings hidden. Sherlock is sure that showing them would be the final straw, it would finally drive John away. Permanently. 

The throbbing in his head is giving way to a familiar feeling under his ribs. He thinks about the blackness and the aching hole it lives in, making his skin crawl. Its presence is stronger than it has been in a very long time now, mocking his weakness. 

With shaking arms Sherlock rolls over and takes a few sips from the glass of water John left on the side. Then he burrows under the sheets and lets the darkness of the room wash over him until he falls into a troubled sleep. 

****** 

It’s begun snowing again as John walks. No, walks isn’t right. Storms, maybe. Marches. Stomps. London is fairly quiet now, the white flakes falling are keeping the residents indoors. 

He knows Sherlock is just frightened, that he’s lashing out because he’s scared. Scared of the virus? Scared of what it means for the rest of his life? Sure. But it seems he’s also scared of what John will think, what John will do. John has already determined there is nothing, _nothing_ , that can part him from Sherlock’s side. How can he make Sherlock understand this though, without giving away too much? Without risking the rejection that would inevitably follow? Without just blurting out that he loves Sherlock, loves him heart and soul, more than simply as best friends? 

Sighing, John’s pace slows and he yanks open the door of a dingy all-night café. Settling in with a rather horrid cup of coffee, John rests his head in his hands and thinks. It hurts to see Sherlock so vulnerable and unsure, scared and fragile. John wants so much just to comfort him, for Sherlock to accept John’s love and for it to become the source of strength for them both that John knows it can be. He decides he is determined to tell Sherlock how he feels, but not until he’s well and not until they’re back on an even keel again. Things are too delicate right now, he doesn’t want to overwhelm or upset Sherlock with poorly thought-through declarations and his messy emotions. 

Decision made, John feels much steadier. He grips his cup and grimly sips the rancid coffee, taking the time to finish it before he goes back. He can only hope that Sherlock’s diagnosis doesn’t either force the issue or cause a rift between them, pushing them even further apart. 

****** 

Sherlock jerks himself awake, dark dreams of a black beast clawing at his chest fading eventually as he takes in the room around him. His head is still pounding, he’s still shaking a little and he’s sweating and cold. He needs blood. 

Nothing for it then. John is going to leave anyway, especially after that last outburst. Sherlock feels utterly miserable; the last time he felt this low was right after John’s wedding, and look what happened there. As much as he told himself it was for the case, to catch Magnussen’s attentions, part of him knows he just wanted to sink into the oblivion the 7% solution used to offer, just one more time. Just enough to block out the John in his head, John’s voice in his ear, John’s warm hand at the nape of his neck as he gave that stupid speech. He thought he’d given away too much even then, before the agony of the reception, but again John surprised him. This time with his bullish refusal to see what everyone else had plainly noticed, what Sherlock had accidentally laid bare right in front of him and at his feet. And even though John had finally come back, now he’s leaving once more. Groaning, Sherlock sits up and rests a hand on the blood bag on the bedside table. Whose is this, he wonders. Did John call the hospital and have them deliver a donor bag, or did he get Mycroft to bring it? No matter, if John has left it here for Sherlock then it will be suitable for consumption. He picks up the bag and squeezes it gently, watching the dark, life-giving liquid wash back and forth beneath the clear plastic. 

Swallowing his distaste, this is his life now after all, Sherlock pricks open the bag, pulls out the feeding tube and takes his first sip of blood. 

The effect is immediate, his body absorbing the fluid rapidly. The thumping in his head begins to fade, and it feels as though his senses are coming back to full awareness after a deep sleep. He thinks he sees the imaginary black fog around the bite wound dissipate, and feels its weight release his heart and chest. His pupils dilate, his heart-rate increases slightly and before he realises what he's doing, Sherlock is gulping at the tube, pulling more fluid into his mouth greedily. He’s astonished at the sensations in his body, the lethargy and sensitivities vanishing as he consumes the blood, noticing belatedly and with no small amount of shame that he’s now half-hard in his pyjamas. 

Sherlock drains most of the bag and sets it aside on the bedside table again, tucking the tube underneath so as not to drip onto the hardwood floor. Not that he cares, but John will. The lamiastis symptoms have abated for now, but Sherlock knows from his research that he will need to feed again soon to get full control and begin establishing a feeding pattern. 

He lays down on his back, breathing unsteadily, warmth and arousal swimming pleasantly in his veins. He closes his eyes and allows it to sweep through him, the sensation of comfort and safe and care. If this is what a stranger’s blood can do for him, what would John’s blood feel like?

The question causes his flagging erection to suddenly swell as images flood his mind; pressing John to his body, John’s strong chest against Sherlock’s, John taking him and claiming him. Sherlock dragging his already-sharpening canines along John’s shoulders as they fuck. John’s arms around him, hands on Sherlock's arms and back and arse, John grasping him tightly, filling him. John tilting his head to expose his neck and moaning, coming into Sherlock’s body as he bites down and tastes John's blood. 

This thought is too stimulating, too enticing. It is all that he wants, John inside him, completing him, joining them together as intimately as is physically possible. Feeling John all around him as he feeds.

Sherlock shuffles onto his right side, rips off the blanket and yanks down his pyjama bottoms, groaning lewdly as he pushes into the circle of his fist. As one hand grips his hot, stiff cock, the fingers of the other reach around to tease at his hole, light touches at the fluttering muscles. He’s unable to prevent the noises he’s making and in the thick cloud of desire swarming around him he doesn’t care. He thinks of John’s hands, John’s arms, John’s lips. He imagines John behind him, his own erection rubbing roughly against Sherlock’s arse as together they chase their climax. Sherlock presses the tip of one long finger just into himself and the sensation sends him tumbling, his orgasm rocking his body with shivers as he paints the sheets with his come. 

As he lies there, sheets soiled and sweaty, the wave of pleasure recedes and in its place comes shame, disgust. The black self-loathing in his side throbs in time with Sherlock’s uneven pulse, just reminding him of its presence. Revolted, he forces his body to standing long enough to tear away the dirty sheet beneath him and hurl it into the corner. 

Exhausted, Sherlock collapses onto the bed again. He curls into himself and pulls up the blanket, willing John to stay away until he has his guard back up and his feelings under control again.

****** 

The coffee sits uncomfortably in John’s gut as he steps out into the snow. Pulling his coat more tightly around him, he sets off back towards Baker Street. His thoughts swirl around him with the snow flakes, catching in his hair and on his eyelashes. He jams his hands deeper into his pockets and scrunches up his shoulders against the cold. 

It’s not far back to the flat but despite his determined resolve to confront this thing between him and Sherlock head on, John finds he’s taking his time, dawdling and taking a meandering route. The timing is appalling, John knows, Sherlock is vulnerable and frightened. He’s hurt and he’s not coping with the virus raging through his body, neither physically nor mentally. All the panicked mutterings about some black stuff, the way Sherlock had gone straight on the defensive once he realised John had figured out what was wrong. Remembering the sheer terror in Sherlock's eyes breaks John’s heart, and he knows he is making the right choice to come clean about his feelings, no matter what. Sherlock deserves to know how fiercely he is loved, how much John will continue to care for him regardless of his diagnosis. 

Stumbling a little in the slush as he turns the corner, John doesn’t even bother to resist when the sleek black car draws up beside him. The car stops and John pulls open the door, sliding across the leather into the warmth of the backseat. He rubs his hands together as the car pulls away, watching the quiet streets pass through the tinted glass. Finally, he reluctantly raises his head and meets the eyes of the man opposite him. 

Mycroft gazes steadily back at him. There’s virtually no indication of any emotional state in his face, but John knows where to look to find the evidence. Nearly six years, give or take, with the Holmes brothers in his life has taught him a few things. The fine lines around Mycroft’s eyes appear deeper, there are minute creases in his shirt and the usually pristine suit jacket, indicative of where he has had them rolled up to his forearms. His mouth is drawn into a thin line and John can see the concern in his eyes; however dubiously he goes about it and however effectively he hides it, Mycroft’s worry and love for his brother is there if you only know how to see it. 

“I’d ask how you know, but I’d never get a straight answer, would I?” John says, more sharply than he intended. Mycroft rolls his eyes in a gesture that reminds John of Sherlock (who would be infuriated to hear just how much he resembles his brother sometimes). 

“It seems my brother has managed to contract a serious virus in the course of his work,” Mycroft intones dully. John snorts, suddenly angry.

“Yes, he has,” John snaps, “and I’m doing my best to make sure he is looked after properly. As I always have.” He fixes Mycroft with his most fearsome Captain Watson glare, fully expecting to be mocked for his outburst. He is shocked when Mycroft drops his gaze and sighs heavily, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hands momentarily before straightening up again. John can’t help it, his mouth drops open as Mycroft drops the Iceman act for just a few seconds. His voice is uncharacteristically soft and it only serves to increase the tension and worry in John’s already aching heart.

“I’m sorry, John,” Mycroft says. “I do believe you want what’s best for Sherlock, but I fear this may be beyond even you.” He sighs again and turns away, looking out of the window. John watches as the Iceman slides back into place. 

“You of course have seen Sherlock become lost in the grip of his mind, restless and bored. His ability to regulate these troughs, as it were, developed in tandem with his inability to take proper care during his peaks. It isn’t so much that he feels himself invincible, just that it does not occur to him that he should take care. That there are those who hurt, to see him hurt.” John nods, absorbing this carefully. He knows what Mycroft is talking about but he senses that there is something important coming. Mycroft turns back to face John and fixes him with a firm stare.

“When Sherlock was nine, he slipped into what Mummy used to call one of his black moods. He was a troublesome child, difficult to keep occupied, and he occasionally suffered bouts of listlessness. This particular black mood however, was much deeper and more destructive than any he had had previously.

He became increasingly sullen and withdrawn, locking himself away in his bedroom for long stretches of time. Mummy tried to coax him out, as did Father, but he remained unreachable. I was the only one who he would allow close, and even then he barely engaged in conversation, nor touched his food. He slept a lot. In one of his more open moments, he confessed to me that he felt a black mass pressing into his chest, a black beast with which he wrestled in his dreams. He told me he dreamt that it slid out of his body and enveloped the house, causing the rest of the family to fall under the same spell that it had cast over Sherlock. I briefly tried to reassure him that it was merely a manifestation of his low mood, that his mind was conjuring up imaginary demons that he would fight in his dreams. He looked thoughtful, and I thought I had reached him. I told him he should keep this to himself, to my lasting regret. He began to cry, and I...." Mycroft trails off, lost in the memory for a moment. His voice turns cold when he speaks again. "He sneered at me. I left. He never mentioned it again." 

"Our parents eventually became so worried about him that they took him to a specialist. Somehow Sherlock managed to fool them all into thinking he was coming around, that his black mood was on its way out. They came home and for a short time, Sherlock was his usual, boisterous self. I felt it best to let him work through these things by himself, to allow him to create his own coping mechanisms. As you know, trying to force Sherlock to do anything he does not wish to does not produce the best results.”

The car draws to a stop outside Baker Street. John looks at the man across from him, suddenly thinking about how lonely Mycroft must be. He opens the door and makes to get out of the car. On the pavement he turns, holding the car door open. He ducks down to address the backseat. 

“I have no intention of allowing him to handle this alone,” John says quietly but firmly. He means the lamiastis but he knows that Mycroft is fully aware of how much John loves his brother. The man in the ludicrously expensive, slightly rumpled suit nods once. John closes the door. 

Anthea is standing by the front door as John fishes in his pockets for his keys. She lifts the medical bag in her hand and passes it to John, then returns to the black car. John glances down and sees that the bag is full of supplies, similar to those he had asked Molly to bring him. Enough to last Sherlock at least the next few weeks of lamiastis treatment. 

Anthea gets in and John watches the car pull away, Mycroft’s words echoing on a loop in his head. 

He lets himself into the flat quietly, leaving the bag of supplies on the sitting room floor. The silence is unsettling, but he’s reluctant to disturb Sherlock if he’s sleeping. All of the lights in 221B are off, and through the front windows the pale orange of the street-lamps is broken only by the lightly falling snow.

Moving swiftly but noiselessly, John approaches the half-closed bedroom door and leans into the darkened room. His eyes adjust to the dimness and he can make out Sherlock’s body on the mattress, under the blanket, bottom sheet gone. His chest is regularly rising and falling, his breathing seems fairly even. Asleep then. Good. 

The blood bag on the table beside Sherlock’s head is almost empty. John closes his eyes briefly, feeling relieved and saddened. If anything this just further proves his diagnosis, and that Sherlock was trying to hide it before he cut John down with a few swipes of his vicious tongue. At least he’ll soon be feeling better though, and John starts to think about feeding patterns and needing to draw more blood. 

John withdraws to the sitting room and sits down heavily in his chair. He scrubs a hand across his face and through his hair, stubbornly hoping Sherlock is past the worst of the initial infection. He reaches for his laptop, remembering a journal article or something, information that he’d seen regarding lamiastis treatment. He might as well do some research; although he’s seen the condition before, this is his first try at treating it in the early stages. Arming himself with as much knowledge as possible seems like a logical course of action. One that Sherlock would take, he thinks, smiling. 

As he pulls the laptop up onto the chair a heavy package falls to the floor. Frowning, John bends down and picks up the wrapped item. He turns it over in his hands, hating the prickling of hot tears at the backs of his eyes as he opens his computer to Google and types in the web address. He carefully sets Sherlock’s Christmas present on the arm of his chair, glances at the date in the bottom right hand corner of the screen and blinks away the unshed tears. He pulls up the guidance notes and begins to read.

One set of guidance notes leads onto another, then onto a research paper, then a study by a team in Canada, then one from a different research group in the Netherlands. Before John notices, a couple of hours have passed and his eyes are itching and burning, his concentration completely shot to shit. He closes the laptop and puts it back on the table, taking the book he bought for Sherlock off the arm of the chair and turning it over in his hands. 

Tomorrow is Christmas Day. John will give Sherlock the book, hopefully eliciting that genuine, pleased smile. They'll spend the day in the flat, have a small Christmas dinner together, maybe they'll go out for a walk in the snow and John will fall asleep in his chair when they get back. It's a perfect fantasy, one John hopes will be real one day. 

He tucks the book back into its hiding place beneath the chair and goes upstairs to fetch his duvet. He dumps it onto the sofa and after a cursory, quiet visit to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth, John opens Sherlock's bedroom door just a little. Not enough that the light from the hallway can penetrate, but just enough that if Sherlock needs him in the night, John will be able to hear. 


End file.
